King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  "I am fluent in all major languages of the galaxy," the remote said offhandedly, leading Maigrey along a narrow path made of crushed marble.

  Beautiful plants grew on either side of the path—flowers beautiful and deadly. No such crude devices as land mines for Snaga Ohme. Maigrey, counting quickly, recognized at a glance over twenty species of vegetation lethal to humans alone, plus at least six that would kill any living organism they could wrap their tendrils around. A slithering sound and a low snarling whine coming from the shadows of the manmade jungle informed her that the plants weren't the only killers roaming at large over the estate.

  "I also speak Corasian," the remote added, as an afterthought.

  "Snaga Ohme doesn't miss a bet, does he?" Maigrey glanced up, overhead. Sun and cloudy sky were still visible, but seemed to shimmer slightly. The sun had acquired a halo. "The force field extends up and over the estate?"

  "Of course. It protects us from conventional bombers, nuclear strikes, laser attacks from space, and locusts," the remote said. A tram on a monorail glided forward; doors swung open.

  "Locusts?" Maigrey repeated in some surprise.

  "Damn nuisance—locusts. Please remain inside the tram until it comes to a full and complete stop. This is for your own safety. The average life expectancy in the jungle is forty seconds. Have a nice day."

  The tram doors slid shut and sealed. The vehicle cruised away with Maigrey inside, moving slowly at first.

  "Please be seated," the tram said, speaking muslamic. "Snaga Ohme welcomes you to his house and hopes that your stay will be a pleasant one. Make no attempt to open the door. It is wired to explode. Magazine?"

  The tram picked up speed, rocketing along the monorail. Trees and plants and flowers passed in a dizzying blur. Maigrey thumbed through a year-old copy of Laskarian Hot Spots, found listed the name of the bar where she had first met John Dixter.

  Closing the magazine, she tossed it aside and sat back against the leather seats, stared unseeing into the deadly jungle.

  Chapter Eight

  . . . one pearl of great price . . .

  St. Matthew, 13:45

  "Do you recognize her?" Snaga Ohme asked.

  "No. And we have most of Sagan's known agents'-on file. We've sent her description through the computer. There's no match."

  "What about the breed? You don't have him on file?" Snaga Ohme said languidly.

  Bosk appeared nettled. "If the breed really exists! No one's lived to tell of meeting him. You know my theory. I think he's a rumor Sagan started just to frighten his more gullible opponents. At any rate, she's not a half-breed, nor a 'droid. She's the genuine article."

  Snaga Ohme and his cohort lounged in the Adonian's security room, observing their visitor on numerous screens. Hidden cameras, and some not so hidden, provided the Adonian a look at everyone living, working, or entering his dwelling. So thorough was his scrutiny that he could see a close-up of the woman's hands on one screen and at the same time observe a view of her skeletal make-up and the functioning of her vital organs on another.

  "What is she—blood type, DNA, that sort of thing?"

  Bosk was slightly embarrassed. "We can't tell. The testing equipment's not working properly."

  "Not working!" Snaga Ohme stared at him in unparalleled amazement. "Since when?"

  "Since ... I don't know!" Bosk looked harassed. "Since she walked in the house, I suppose! It was operating well enough yesterday. I've got the repair crews on it."

  "Odd." Snaga Ohme mused, sipping at champagne. "Still, I don't suppose it matters. She's not armed."

  "A beam rifle in the jeep, but that's standard military procedure. She may not have known it was in there. She's wearing standard military light body armor. Other than that, the only object she has on her person is a small box made of rosewood."

  "What's in the box?"

  "Energy."

  "Energy? What sort of energy? A rechargeable battery? What?"

  "Just . . . energy." Bosh shrugged, kept his gaze averted.

  "Dear boy, have you gone mad? Perhaps it's a bomb."

  "No, it's not a bomb. It's benign, harmless. And it's just what I say it is—energy. Like she was carrying a small sun, for example."

  "Take it away from her. Bring it to me."

  "We tried." Bosk flushed. "She said if we touch it, the deal is off. According to our voice analyzer, she means it, too. She's not bluffing."

  "And you're certain it's not an explosive?"

  "We sent it through the neutralizer. Nothing."

  "She didn't object to that?"

  "No. Look, boss, you said yourself Sagan wouldn't try to kill you over a little thing like double-crossing him."

  "I am extremely valuable to the Warlord," Ohme reflected. "And, for all his other faults, Derek isn't one to cut his nose off because his helmet rubs it wrong. But this woman of his is most puzzling. A mystery." The Adonian frowned.

  "Don't make such a face, my dear!" Bosk reprimanded him, reaching out a hand to smooth his superior's flawless marble brow. "You can't think how it wrinkles you."

  "Confound it, if I develop wrinkles, it won't be my fault! It will be hers! I detest mysteries! Take the woman to my office."

  Bosk left on his errand. Snaga Ohme rose to his feet, turned his head to look in one of the ever-present mirrors. The frown line was no longer visible, had done no permanent damage. He was still beautiful.

  The Adonian's estate was larger in area than many civilized nations in the Galactic Democratic Republic. His house and the buildings attendant to it were taller and more numerous than those in some cities. None of the actual weapons manufacturing was carried out on Laskar. Raw materials were more readily available and labor was cheaper on other planets. Then, too, factories and laboratories tend to be ugly things and the Adonian could not bear to be around anything ugly. His one concession to the business side of his life were mazes of target ranges, located in catacombs below his vast estate, and a gigantic auditorium specially designed to show off his latest inventions.

  Once a year, the Adonian gave a party in that auditorium, a party that was known the galaxy over. Invitations were sent only to the rich and powerful or, in some instances, to those Snaga Ohme's research teams determined had the potential for becoming rich and powerful. Invitations to the Adonian's party were, therefore, highly coveted. The reputation of several hitherto "unknowns" had been made by being asked to the party. One person, at least, was rumored to have killed himself when his invitation—always hand-delivered in person by an Adonian of extraordinary beauty and charm—didn't arrive.

  Snaga Ohme's mansion was extraordinarily beautiful. It was, Maigrey decided, too beautiful. The effect, on walking through rooms and halls whose design and style and furnishings had been copied from the most beautiful rooms and halls in the universe, was tantamount to sitting down to dinner and discovering the table loaded with nothing but chocolate eclairs, meringues, and whipped cream cakes.

  One of the features of the tour through the stately mansion—a tour obviously intended to flaunt Ohme's wealth—were the rooms the Adonian fancifully called the Jewel Box. Known throughout the galaxy for his collection of rare and priceless gems, Snaga Ohme had devoted one entire wing to their display. Enclosed in their steelglass cases, the jewels gleamed and glittered, flamed and sparkled. The very latest techniques in lighting were used to set off each to its best advantage. Here, Maigrey had to admit, was true wealth, true splendor.

  "Our most prized pieces," Bosk said. "The crown jewels— sold by the government following the revolution in order to raise money to aid those impoverished by the decadent life-style of the king and his family."

  Decadent life-style. Maigrey sighed softly. Poor king. Poor, misguided king.

  "Interested in the crown, are you? Yes, it is the most valuable object in the collection, worth the wealth of several planets, I'm told. And such an entertaining history goes along with it. See the dark blotch there, beneath the fire diamond?

  It'
s blood. His late Majesty was wearing this very crown the night of the revolution, the night of his—"

  A roaring in her ears drowned the voice. Maigrey breathed in smoke, her skin was scorched by flame. She was running, running desperately. ...

  A barrier in her mind crashed down, shutting off the memories, leaving her in darkness. For a terrifying instant, she was blind, disoriented, had no idea where she was. And then the blank wall that had blocked her vision dissolved. She saw Bosk and the jewels—the man prattling on, oblivious to his guest's inattention. Maigrey blessed the foresight that had led her to hide her face beneath the veil.

  She walked away, cutting off Bosk in mid-speech.

  Every room in the house was the same—sumptuously beautiful. The servants were beautiful, the pets were beautiful, the people in the oil paintings were beautiful. Maigrey was exhausted with beauty by the time she and her escort reached the private office of the Adonian. Located in its own separate wing, the office was connected to the main house by a tunnel whose colored lights, dancing to recorded music, were incredibly beautiful.

  "Major Penthesilea? I trust I am pronouncing that correctly?" Snaga Ohme rose to greet her, actually crossed the large, thick-carpeted room to take her hand in his and press it warmly.

  From his welcome, she might have been bringing him his heart's desire—which she was, but he couldn't know that yet. Adonians were invariably charming; they couldn't help it, it was an inborn trait. Ohme would have greeted his most detested enemy in the same fashion.

  Maigrey glanced around the office and was relieved to note that, though the room was beautiful in design and furnished quite beautifully, Snaga Ohme had been forced of necessity to permit a certain amount of ugliness. His arsenal of weapons, hidden among the paintings, the statuary, and other objets d'art, had been cleverly concealed, but an expert eye could find them. Maigrey located what she hoped were most of them, felt at home for the first time since she'd entered the estate.

  "I am Snaga Ohme." The Adonian introduced himself with a charming humility, as if his face wasn't one of the most reproduced and recognizable in the galaxy.

  Ohme led his guest to a chair at his desk, held it for her himself, hovered over her as if she were made of the most fragile, exquisite porcelain and might shatter at a harsh touch. He made numerous anxious inquiries: Was the chair comfortable for her? Was the room temperature too warm? Too cool? Would she accept a glass of champagne? A plate of imported strawberries? A cushion for her head? A cushion for her feet?

  Maigrey, accustomed to dealing with Adonians, assured Snaga Ohme several times that she had never in her entire life been happier or more contented than she was at this particular moment. It amused her, on looking up, to see focused on her the tiny glass eye of the lethal laser that could obliterate her in seconds.

  Finally, after assuring himself that he could do nothing to increase her happiness, Snaga Ohme seated himself behind a massive desk carved of ebony. Like his gardens, like his office, he was beautiful on the surface, deadly beneath.

  Soft, luxuriant, wavy black hair framed a face virile and strong and masculine. His white teeth were perfect, his lips curved sensually. His eyes were liquid gold, like olive oil. He spoke in a rich baritone voice. Settled into his chair, Ohme fixed his golden-eyed gaze on his guest. His hand, moving unobtrusively, glided beneath his desk. Harsh light illuminated Maigrey, half-blinding her, leaving the Adonian in shadow.

  Standing behind Maigrey was Bosk. Hands folded respectfully, he seemed by his demeanor to have been born for no other purpose than to serve Ohme's honored guests. Maigrey knew better, knew a trained killer when she saw one.

  Rising to her feet, she moved to another chair, a chair that stood in darkness. The Adonian was all sudden concern. Had she been sitting in a draft?

  "The light," she said, "it hurts my eyes. I hope you don't mind." Maigrey noted the laser beam, tracking her.

  "Oh, but I do mind . . . Major." Another light switched on, illuminated her in a pool of radiance.

  Snaga Ohme glanced at himself in the mirror on his desk, then condescended to pay the woman the compliment of looking at her. "You have such a low and musical voice, you move so gracefully, your eyes are quite fine. Why do you hide yourself from the sight of those who must adore you, if they were privileged enough to see what can only be a lovely face? Remove your veil."

  "I have taken a vow that no man will see my face," Maigrey replied.

  "Is Derek Sagan included in this 'vow' . . . Major?" Snaga Ohme leaned back in his chair, delicately placed the tips of his fingers together. The gold eyes were oily slits. Sparkling jewels from numerous rings glinted in the light.

  Maigrey decided enough was enough. Lifting her right hand, she made a slight gesture. The light above her winked out. Every light in the room went out, plunging them all in darkness. A faint hum, that had been barely audible, ceased. She heard Snaga Ohme sit abruptly forward.

  "Bosk!"

  "I've got her covered!"

  Maigrey felt a gun press against her head, beneath the right earlobe. She relaxed back into the creaking leather of the chair.

  "Control room?" The Adonian was, by the sound of it, pressing buttons and flipping switches.

  "Checking!" a voice shouted from the ceiling. "No malfunction. Everything just blew! Some type of tremendous electrical overload. Most of the circuits are . . . fried!"

  "The wiring in these older homes is dreadfully substandard," Maigrey observed.

  "The devil with the wiring!" Snaga Ohme rose to his feet, turned, and pawed his way through several layers of heavy velvet and silk curtains until he came to large steelglass windows. He shoved the curtains open. The room was flooded with green sunlight that had an odd cast to it—the approaching storm. Gazing at Maigrey, the Adonian's olive-oil eyes seemed to have turned suddenly rancid.

  "Who are you?" he demanded.

  "You know my name," she answered. "Perhaps your associate could remove his weapon—which, by the way, is no longer functioning—and we could continue with our business. I am not an assassin. I assure you, Snaga Ohme, had I been sent to kill you, you would be dead right now."

  Bosk looked for the red light indicating that the lasgun was operational. Not finding it, he threw the weapon to the floor, grabbed Maigrey roughly by the shoulder. "I'll take her to the dungeon—"

  "No, no." Snaga Ohme was regarding Maigrey thoughtfully. His voice regained its former politic politeness. "Don't be discourteous to our guest, Bosk. Forgive him, Major, he worries about me more than my own mother. As you say, let us get back to business."

  The Adonian smoothed the wrinkles in his suit, adjusted his tie, and relapsed back into his chair. An oblique motion of his hand sent Bosk, grumbling beneath his breath, to take his place at the side of the desk.

  "I have something to sell, Major. You want to buy it. It is extremely costly." Ohme spread his hands, sighing. "The age-old law of supply and demand. The demand is great and the supply limited. There is, in fact, only one and there are several customers interested in obtaining it. You, if I understand correctly, represent Lord Sagan—"

  "—who," Maigrey interposed, "if I understand correctly, fronted the money for the research and development of the . . . object . . ."

  "Yes, that is true, and therefore I am willing to keep the price down for his lordship, adding only a small fee for the trouble and inconvenience due to his failure to pay on time. Unfortunately, Major," said Ohme with a sigh, "I have the impression that here is where our deal begins and . . . here it ends. A TRUC-load of golden eagles would hardly be sufficient payment, and you have brought nothing. I do not accept credit."

  Snaga Ohme rose to his feet. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he smoothed nonexistent creases from his jacket. "Meeting you has been an interesting experience, Major. Extend my regards to Lord Sagan."

  Maigrey slid her hand beneath the folds of the black robes, reached into the pocket of her body armor, and withdrew the rosewood box. She saw, out of the corner o
f her eye, Bosk tense and take a step toward her. She saw Snaga Ohme make a quick gesture, warding the man away. They had known of the box's existence, obviously, but they could not know what was inside. The inherent properties of the jewel itself would mask it from any type of detection equipment.

  Maigrey ignored Ohme, ignored Bosk. She concentrated on the box, on keeping her hand from shaking, though a tremor ran through her body. Never before, in all the long and noble history of the Guardians, had anyone done such a thing as she was about to do. She had not realized it would be so difficult and, for a moment, was afraid she couldn't go through with it.

  If she didn't, she would lose, Sagan would win.

  Maigrey set her hand upon the box, lifted the lid.

  Bosk sucked in an awed breath. Snaga Ohme made no sound; he had ceased to breathe.

  It was as if Maigrey had stretched out her hand and caught and held the sunbeams shining through the window. And vet the light was more brilliant. It was as if she had plucked a moon from the night sky. And yet it was more radiant. It was as if she held forth a star. . . .

  Faced with a choice of breathing or passing out, Snaga Ohme caught his breath. "A starjewel," he said in his own language.

  "Does the jewel cover the price of the bomb?" Maigrey inquired coolly.

  "Lady, whoever you are, I must be honest!" Desire cracked Snaga Ohme's voice. He reached out a trembling hand. "What you offer is worth far more ... far more! I've never seen ... I didn't know any still existed. ... All were destroyed. ..."

  Maigrey snapped the lid shut, nearly catching the Adonian's fingers, and sat back, calm and composed, her hand covering the box.

  "And now I want to see what it is I am buying."

  Snaga Ohme's eyes were on the box. His fingers twitched. The handsome face had flushed a shade of red that, had he observed himself in the mirror, he would have seen was profoundly ugly. He wasn't looking in the mirror, however. For the first and perhaps only time in his life, he had forgotten his appearance. He pointed at the box.